


A Thousand Silhouettes

by astoryandasong



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Animal Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:51:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4586754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astoryandasong/pseuds/astoryandasong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an incident several years ago, Will Graham has withdrawn his help from the FBI to concentrate on his latest novel.  This is his most personal story yet and the crime it fictionalises is close to home.</p><p>Someone out there clearly doesn't want Will to uncover the truth. As threats escalate he is forced to hire a bodyguard. Enter Hannibal Lecter, hired by Will’s foster father Jack Crawford to keep him safe.  But figuring out who wants Will dead isn’t as easy as it seems and as the tension between them rises in more ways than one, Hannibal is determined to keep Will alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Will grew up by the water. The leevees of New Orleans, the Mississippi, the Florida Keys. His nod to that is the waist deep river which runs nearby his house and enables him to fly fish as regularly as he likes. He enjoys catching whatever finds its way onto his hooks, watching his dogs play in the shallows and teasing Abigail about whatever teenage angst she has this week. Her cheeks always pink up as she laughs.

By the time Alana trudges down to collect Abigail he's always cold, happy and ready to subject everyone to what he's caught. These days are the best days he thinks. Even better when he can drag his foster sister Beverly down as well, or Jack.

These are the days on which he is neither writing nor helping Jack with whatever case he has at the moment. On those days his only breaks are to walk and feed both the dogs and himself. Alana and Abigail drop in on those days with food and warmly felt arms wrapped around his shoulder as they leave, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

 

He began writing when he was in his late teens, encouraged by Bella to write down the nightmares that plagued his sleep and left his sheets soaked with sweat. She used to take one look at him in the morning and hug him tightly whatever state he was in before shoving him gently towards the shower. Jack had saved him twice, once from that room with his parent's blood on the walls and once when he brought him home to Bella.

Today is a writing day. The dreams have been worse than usual. They have the sepia tint of age and memory as well as the clammy fear of a day he has done his best not to think of, never mind write about. It made the nationals, back then. Couple slain in their own home while son sleeps upstairs. Jack Crawford the young agent who led a shivering eleven year old boy out into the daylight away from his mother's body, still in the clutch of rigor mortis. They never caught anyone for his parent's murder. Jack, without children of his own and strangely attached to the child, took him home. Some time later they fostered another child, Beverly.

He can't feel any way around it this time. This is the story that wants to become. The other killers who have passed behind his eyelids have all been easier to put to the page. He changes their names, the details of the crimes. His books sell by the bushel because  he can think just like them. Every review says that the chapters that he spends with them are the s trongest, most vivid. Fans write him asking for a novel in which the killer is the only narrator, one where they win. He wouldn't give any one of them the satisfaction or the credit. The killers, he thinks, not the fans. The fans are mainly friendly.

There are some though.

He pays Abigail to go through his mail. It all goes to his publisher in Baltimore and Alana's partner Margot usually picks it up once a week. Abigail has seen and read enough that nothing really bothers her. It used to worry Alana, but Abigail is a sensible girl, really. The last few weeks she's handed him a few letters that have stuck out. She handles the requests for autographs and signed books regularly, passes him anything he might want. She's saving up for College, wants to go to Wellesley. Has no idea she already has a trust fund from Will.

But these letters have triggered some part of Abigail that seeks its twin in Will, the part that he saw in her eyes that made him suggest to Alana that taking Abigail in might be a good idea. They're warnings, vague and opaque, referencing the current novel that Will is  _this close_ to finishing without ever mentioning the subject. There are no demands.

He just doesn't know who the killer is yet. He can only get so far, his usual clarity obscured by how close he is to it. The case files have been spread on his desk for months. The photos haven't made it onto his board as usual though- he kept seeing his mother's eyes in the dark.

The latest one is sitting on his desk. It's typed, printed on white, unremarkable paper. Nothing about it seems worse than any of the other dozens of abusive letters he's had. But Abigail's instincts are closer to his own than is comfortable at times as it gives him the same unease he sensed in her. It carries a faint scent of charnel and is unsigned. They started arriving a month ago and there's now one in every mail bag. He sets it aside again and opens one of the chapters he knows needs work.

 

 

Sleep came badly last night when it came at all and he needs a day away from the computer. As soon as he decides that today is a fishing day he feels better and besides Abigail will be back at school again in a few weeks, so he wants so spend as much time with her as he can. The dogs are happy, nails clicking around him on the tile of the kitchen floor.

All except for Lizzie, which is unusual as she's usually the first with her snout in the food bowl.

“Lizzie, food time!” He calls, shaking the food bag.

When no Lizzie is forthcoming he checks the rest of the house. She might have gone out through the dog door, he thinks. He fenced in part of the yard so that they could wander in and out as they pleased, lounge in the sun or shade.He opens the back door, expecting a sleepy Lizzie, tail wagging.

He notices the blood first, so red against the painted white of the steps. Lizzie's fur is matted with it, so much that he can't tell immediately what's killed her. The pendulum of his empathy swings, and a dark figure is depositing Lizzie on the step. He knows instantly the design of this kill. To take something precious from him, to reinforce the message he feels Will isn't getting.

Will slams the door shut and calls Jack.

“Someone killed Lizzie, Jack.” He doesn't even say hello.

“What?”

“She wasn't in the house so I opened the back door. She's on the step Jack, there's blood everywhere, I can't...”

“Was it an animal Will? Think. Could it have been another animal?”

“No. I know, Jack. I know.”

“Stay put. I'm on my way.”

Will spends the hour of Jack's journey huddled miserably on the floor with his remaining pack, face buried in Winston's fur. Whoever did it must have lured Lizzie away, he thinks. The other dogs would have barked if someone had come so close to the house. They should check the yard's back gate.

It's how Jack finds him. He holds Will's shoulder hard before opening the back door for himself. Will watches from where he sits and sees Jack's shoulders slump. Lizzie has been Will's dog for eight years and they both have happy memories of Bella curled up on Will's couch with Lizzie's head in her lap.

“A person did that.” He sounds like might be ageing under Will's eyes.

“It's a threat.” I'm so tired, Will thinks. This was going to be a good day. I was going to catch fish and make people I love smile.

“Give me the letters.”

“Abigail keeps them in the drawer of her desk.”

He bought the desk the last time he went into Baltimore six months ago. He put it by the sunniest window of the sitting room, imagining Abigail sitting doing her homework. He can hear Jack rattle the drawers.

 

“I'm staying with you tonight.” He says firmly. “Someone from the lab will come by and pick these up. I'm not leaving you alone today.”

He unbuttons his camel coat and lays it across a chair.

“Will they take Lizzie away too?”

“Yes. Now, I'm making coffee. I need one and so do you.”

 

Price and Zeller come by from Jack's lab, bearing food and a change of clothes for Jack. They take the letters and lift Lizzie into a body bag. As suspected the yard's back gate has been pried open.Jack and Will stand in the kitchen and watch as they load the van, Price waving as they drive away. Neither of them speak. They're used to being silent together, without Bella or Beverly there to draw them out.

Alana comes over, called by Jack. Abigail is sleeping over at her friend Marissa's house. She's brought food and beer, both of which Will gladly falls on.

They talk about the letters.

“I can't imagine why anyone would want to threaten you Will.” Alana takes a swig from her bottle and leans back in her chair.

“Some people don't like what I write about.” Letters have arrived, emails, tweets now too. Accusing him of glorifying violence, the criminal mind.

“This has moved beyond letters now.” Jack looks at him with the facial expression Will has learned precedes something he isn't going to like.

“You need to think about getting some security.”

“Come on Jack, we both know alarms are worth shit.”

“I don't mean an alarm. I mean a bodyguard. A good one, too.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I am. If you'd had one last time maybe...”

He doesn't need to finish. There are reasons why Will has been so reclusive for the past few years, but one in particular needs no name. The last time Will had communication from a killer it had ended in the scar that runs across his forehead. It's much paler now, so pale that he almost forgets about it. Almost.

“He wouldn't have stopped with killing the dog.”

“That's not comforting, Will.” Alana, the traitor, looks like she agrees with Jack.

There is some part of him that's a traitor too. He's scared. This house has been his sanctuary and now there's blood on the doorstep. He could put this novel on hold until this all over. But he can no more stop writing than he can breathing- without a place to go the nightmares would send him back to the psych ward. He needs to do something with this ability he has, so he helps Jack. He needs to not go crazy at the same time, so he writes.

If they don't go on the page things can go bad.

“Fine. But no agents.”

Will mistrusts almost every agent outside of Jack, the lab team and the agent who usually acts as his chaperone at crime scenes, Ardelia Mapp. There were agents guarding his house the night his life fell apart for the second time.

Jack looks relieved. He must have expected more of a fight on it.

“We'll nail the dog door shut tonight. They don't go outside without you or me. I'll make some calls tonight and we'll find someone to stay with you.”

“He's watching me somehow Jack. He knows what I'm writing...I think he knows the ending better than I do.”

Alana puts a hand on his knee and squeezes reassuringly.

“You could come and stay with us, Margot is always trying to get you up to the house. Abigail would love it too.”

It appeals for a moment. He's fond of Margot for how happy she makes Alana and of course he loves Abigail. He allows himself to imagine being in the comforting presence of the women in his life before sense asserts itself. Staying at the their house would make them a target.

“No. Jack will stay tonight and then someone will be here to keep an eye on things. You'd better tell Abigail not to come over in the meantime.”

“What will I tell her when she asks why?”

“The truth.”

“She won't like it.”

“Neither will I.”

After Alana leaves, they nail the dog door shut and pour two large whiskeys.

Jack looks into the tumbler like it might provide answers he likes better than the ones he's likely to get when he asks the question that's obviously on his mind.

“How dangerous do you think this guy is?”

“Very. Dangerous and angry, so angry he might get reckless.”

“You got all that from letters and Lizzie?”

Will nods.

“And you know I can't stop this. I'm getting so close finally. Why is someone choosing now to do this? ”

“I don't know.”

Jack's careful notes fill the files on Will's desk. The murders of Scott and Vanessa Graham remain unsolved but not through lack of investigation on Jack's part. Forensic science was still crude in the 1970's and the murder of the Grahams seemingly as random as it was brutal. Will's memories of the night were hazy at best and terrifying at worst. He knew he had already been empathetic, but somehow that night had imprinted on him what he was best at, seeing the designs of those who took life.

Yet he hadn't been able to make the pendulum swing for Scott and Vanessa, until now and even then it was incomplete. He couldn't let it go. He had to see the full design for himself.

“Find a bodyguard for me Jack.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Jack starts making calls as soon as Will drifts off. Just like when he was a boy, Jack covers him with a blanket, runs his fingers through his hair. 

He has some army buddies who went down the private contracting route when they came back from Vietnam and he reaches out to them. One of them gives him a lead to a woman in Italy, Bedelia Du Maurier, who works as a fixer and represents one of the best bodyguards in the business. 

He was rumoured to have made his mark first in the eternal seeming conflicts of the Balkans and after, when he was sent to bring one of Zdravko Tolimir's top lieutenants back to the Hague. Jack is impressed by his credentials and worried by his forays into the darker side of private contracting. Last year a top politician from the UK was found dead in his flat amidst rumours of trips to abuse boys in Thailand. The whispers on backchannel was that it had been paid for by the man's own Government and that the payment had gone to Hannibal. 

But he needs him. The threat to Will is as real as Jack has ever seen in his life and the money isn't an issue. Will's books have made both of them fortunes. They can afford to pay Hannibal's fee, which seems to have as much moral imperative attached as dollar signs. Hannibal will only work on a job he deems worthy. When it is no protection is more complete, no assassination more thorough. His old army buddy had passed him the contact details with a grimace yet had genuinely seemed to respect the man. 

Will is the closest thing Jack has ever had to a son. Is in fact his son, in heart and mind if not in body. Bella had adored him, taken in the skinny traumatised kid with the wide eyes and Southern manners. Beverly had come next, the two of them like chalk and cheese but loving each other so fiercely. 

Jack will walk in front of a bullet before he lets anything happen to either of his kids. He pulls on his coat, hat and scarf and sets out into the Baltimore snow. 

 

The restaurant Hannibal had suggested isn't somewhere Jack would have chosen in which to find an international mercenary for hire. It's a bustling family run Malaysian place, brightly lit and making Jack's mouth water. He hasn't eaten a meal like this since Bella died last year- she and Beverly were always the more adventurous eaters of the family and with Beverly at graduate school he just can't make himself go out to eat like he used to. Will would forget to eat completely if not kept to schedule by his dogs. 

He'll have to tell Hannibal about the damned dog. Poor thing.

As promised, the man he is assumes is Hannibal Lecter is seated at a booth near the back, two steaming bowls set out on the table before him. He clearly has faith in Jack's attendance and his promptness. Given his reputation, it would perhaps be unwise to be so rude as to be late to an appointment. 

He has an interesting face, all angles and shadows even in the bright overheads. Immaculately dressed in a navy suit of a quality obvious even to someone like Jack, who cares little for fashion. Handsome, certainly. When he looks up Jack feels pinned by his eyes, which remind him of dark polished stones. 

“Mr Crawford.” He stands and offers his hand.

“Mr Lecter.” He returns the gesture and then sheds his hat and coat.

“I recommend the duck here. It is especially good.” He has an accented voice, though not heavily so. 

A server comes and goes, Jack taking the recommendation on the duck. 

“Down to business then Mr Crawford.”

“Did Ms Du Maurier explain why we want to hire you?”

“She did. But I would like to hear it from you.”

“I have a son. I fostered him when he was young after his parents were murdered. He's grown up into a good man.” He pauses.

“I was the FBI agent assigned to the case, you see.” The guilt still weighs on him, all these years later. 

“We never caught the killer. As he grew up though it became very clear that Will would be very good at catching them. He has an empathy disorder, that's what the doctors said anyway. He didn't want to officially enter law enforcement, but he helps me with cases as a consultant as well as being a novelist.”

“And a good one. I have read some of his work.”

“Yes, he is a good writer. A few years ago he was helping me with a case and something went wrong. He was hurt, badly. He's withdrawn from the public eye completely. Now someone is threatening him. I don't want a repeat of last time.”

“What shape have these threats taken?”

“At first just letters. But last night someone stole one of his dogs and left it dead on his back step.”

Lecter's face remains impassive, but Jack can sense that his mind is engaged. 

“Does he have any enemies?”

“Some in prison. But I've checked those men and there's nothing to suggest they're involved.”

“Is Mr Graham aware that you have contacted me?”

“He knows I was going to try and find someone, yes.”

“Why not the FBI? You have access to their resources.”

“Mr Lecter I am an agency man through and through. But last time I left my son in the care of the FBI it did not end well for any of us.”

“I want to meet Mr Graham before I agree. If I say no I have other names I can give you.”

“That's fair.” Jack tries the duck. It really is delicious and he's abruptly ravenous, having not eaten since Will's frantic call about Lizzie. He decides to take some back with him. 

“If I say yes, he will have to be moved, first of all. The person threatening him clearly knows where he lives and this is a dangerous escalation. “

Jack nods.

“Let us finish this fine food, then I will follow you in my car to meet Mr Graham.”


	3. Chapter 3

Hannibal follows Jack Crawford down increasingly isolated country roads to Will Graham's Wolf Trap home.

As soon as Bedelia had contacted him about this particular job he had begun looking into his potential charge. Will Graham was not a prolific author, but his books always sold well. Hannibal had finished one on the plane journey from Prague, impressed by the way that Graham wrote about men and women who felt the deep need to kill. Information on his activities with the FBI was sketchier, mainly coming from one reporter, Freddie Lounds, who seemed to have some form of special access to him.

It was certain that Will had been instrumental in the capture of at least one serial killer known as the Minnesota Shrike. Garrett Jacob Hobbs had been stopped at the last moment, preventing the death of his teenage daughter Abigail, whom all the victims resembled in some way. 

Whatever Will Graham is, it interests Hannibal enough for him to make the journey here. 

The only other house for miles of the Graham property belongs to Alana Bloom and Margot Verger, who have taken the young Miss Hobbs in. Hannibal's research showed connections between Dr Bloom and Will from years past. The other major figure in his life is his foster sister Beverly Katz, currently studying forensics at university in another state. 

Graham's house comes into view. It sits on a little hill, well built but in need of a coat of paint. There is no external sign of any disturbances from the front. Hannibal is not a betting man but he would guess that it has good views of all the surrounding land.

Crawford's Explorer slows and Hannibal parks his rented Bentley close by. They pause together on the front steps.

“Will has had a hard couple of days. He isn't his usual self.”

“I understand.” 

Jack has a key and lets them in the door. There is no alarm system, but five dogs come running towards them, making a beeline for Crawford. A sixth dog hangs back from the others, looking at Hannibal warily. Sensible dog, he thinks. 

“Will? I brought Mr Lecter to meet you.”

There's a shuffling from one of the doorways. Will Graham is clearly suffering from lack of sleep and his clothes are dishevelled. Hannibal can smell his cheap shampoo from several feet away. But that is mere distraction from the fact that he is beautiful. The bone structure of his face would be called delicate if clean shaven and his eyes, though tired, are the blue of an endless sky. Eye contact between them lasts just seconds before Graham looks away. Hannibal knows then that Will has always unsettled most people. Their awkwardness with the directness of that gaze has made him awkward in turn.

Hannibal wants his attention. 

“Good afternoon Mr Lecter. You're not what I was expecting.”

“I must confess that neither are you, Mr Graham.”

“You can call me Will.” Another quick glance up at Hannibal.

“You are not fond of eye contact, are you Will?”

“Eyes can be a distraction.”

Hannibal can tell that Will is taking everything about him in, from the way he walks to the cut of his suit. His gaze is assessing, intense for a moment. 

Jack moves closer and puts a fatherly hand on Will's shoulder. Hannibal is fascinated by the way Will sags into it. He clearly trusts Jack absolutely and for a man like Will trust must be hard won and easily lost.

“Mr Crawford has brought me here so that I might learn a little more about why you need my protection.”

Will nods and walks down the small corridor. They follow him into his office, which is covered in books and papers. 

“Organised chaos.” Will says, wincing a little. He's rubbing the back of his neck. Embarrassed, Hannibal thinks. 

He digs around in his desk, producing a thick packet of letters. 

“They've been arriving for months. But I get a lot of weird mail, comes with the territory I suppose.”

Hannibal opens the first. The letter is vague and references several of Will's previous works, odd but not especially threatening. For several weeks they continue in a similar vein, until they become entreaties for Will to stop writing, then threats.

“Abigail Hobbs opens my mail for pocket money. She picked them out and showed them to me. There were a few that had gone straight to the publisher, so we got those too.”

“You bring some of your mail here specifically so that Miss Hobbs can open it for you. There are staff at the publishing house who could do the same.”

Will smiles faintly.

“You've got me there, Mr Lecter. Abigail is saving for college and I wanted to help her.”

“Your dog, Mr Graham, was she prone to wandering?”

The look of grief on Will's face is palpable. 

“No, I've had Lizzie for years. But she was very friendly and could have been lured away with food. Someone broke the lock on the back gate.”

“The other dogs did not bark at all?”

“They did a little during the night, but sometimes they bark at foxes in the yard. I woke up but when I listened I couldn't hear anything odd. I wasn't sleeping well.”

No, you weren't. Hannibal knows from his face that Will Graham very rarely sleeps well. Perhaps when he was young before the murder of his family, or safe in the knowledge that Jack Crawford might protect him from down the hall. The information Bedelia had given him said there was a sister too, adopted as a baby. He sees young Will standing at the foot of his sister's bed, protective, unable to sleep without checking in on her. They have that in common, though only one sister yet lives. 

Now though, the killers whose minds he inhabits pervade his dreams. 

“It was a warning. But how sure are you that your killer and your writer are one in the same?”

“I'm sure.” He makes eye contact with Hannibal then. He wields it like a weapon and Hannibal finds himself not unaffected. 

“This writer is no doubt observing you closely somehow.”

“He knows what I'm writing. He knows what it's about this time.”

“How many people have seen your drafts?”

“Not many. Jack, Alana, the people at the publisher.”

Hannibal walks to the window. It looks out on seemingly endless fields, covered in pale frost. The isolation is striking. It's telling too, that there are more women than men that are trusted to enter this house. Will is a man who genuinely like women and enjoys their company beyond the possibility of sexual liaison. 

Will sits here at this desk and looks out on those frozen fields and sees blood colour the world. The way he writes shows that he understands the darker impulses of the world, his record with the FBI shows that he has a hunter's instinct to go with it. 

He's intrigued, knows that he will take this job already, if only for the chance to study Will in more detail. 

“I will need to draw up a contract with Ms Du Maurier. You should receive it within 24 hours. If the terms are agreeable to you, I will begin.”

He inclines his head to Will. He holds out his hand and it is shaken, firmly by Crawford and shyly by Will. 

“Thank you for coming.” 

“You are most welcome. I will see you tomorrow, all going well.”

“I can drive back with you Mr Lecter.” Jack offers. 

“Thank you for the offer but I believe I can find my way back to the city.”

They both watch him from the porch as he pulls away. 

Back in Baltimore he calls Bedelia. She has been a close acquaintance for many years and he trusts her as far as he is able. He tells her to draw up the usual contract for his services and email it to him immediately. 

Then he changes his clothing and makes his way back to the Graham house in a smaller, less obvious car. His clothing is now dark and more suited for the stakeout he's about to do. 

From a distance the house looks like it floats on the landscape, rising above waves of frosted grass. A lone light is still on in the house. He can't imagine Jack Crawford sleeping very well tonight, but Will may sleep the sleep of the truly exhausted and comforted by Jack's presence. 

Bedelia's research told him Will was an empath. Now he he has seen the truth of it today. Imagination run rampant, together with the nimble brain and extensive training of the FBI's best. A heady combination. 

And, he admits to himself, in such a lovely package. 

Hannibal has never bothered overmuch about the gender of his lovers, but he prefers those who are special in some way. A musician who played the cello so beautifully it brought a tear even to him, a chef capable of the most sublime plates of food. He finds delight in them all. He allows himself a momentary fantasy of Will Graham's mouth. 

Will is unique. So he will begin his watch tonight before ink has even touched the paper of a contract. Will cannot be removed from the world, which would be poorer for it. 

He keeps an eye on the light in the distance, and waits.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who is commenting and leaving kudos! So very appreciated.

Will sleeps. It's the sleep of a body now coming down from an adrenaline burst, finally persuaded that danger has passed, at least for now. With Jack in the house he felt almost secure, safe in his circle of sleeping fur. Even at his age Jack is still a powerfully built man and Will knows that he is keeping a watchful eye downstairs. 

He wonders about the bodyguard Jack had hired for him. At first glance he looked nothing like he'd ever thought a bodyguard would be. Until you looked closer and saw the way he moved, the way his eyes assessed everything. Will's empathy was often unwelcome, but he used it willingly on the man who would be responsible for his safety. The information that had come from Jack said he had been a soldier, but that isn't altogether accurate, Will thinks. He wouldn't have been a good soldier. He would have made others uneasy and would have been better suited to working alone. He is most certainly a killer. He would feel no guilt in dispensing a death he felt just. It is this sense of justice that has made him a highly regarded bodyguard and if rumour is true a most unusual assassin. 

Hannibal is dangerous, but a man of his word. If Will signs his name on the contract, Hannibal will protect him to the best of his ability. The deaths that are most certainly on his hands should bother Will but something about his lethality both in person and on paper makes Will's blood sing. 

As he drifts in and out of consciousness he makes the decision. When the contract comes, he'll sign, no matter the price or conditions asked. 

 

The morning, when it arrives, is bright and cold. The remaining dogs stretch their legs in the safety   
of the yard, though Winston never strays too far from him. Jack is in the kitchen making coffee and eggs. He was always the one who made breakfast on weekends, pancakes and bacon, waffles on special occasions. Bella could burn water if left to her own devices and they would tease her around the kitchen table on a Saturday morning. Margot has issued him a standing invitation to Sunday breakfasts at their house and when he finds himself missing his family most he walks down and eats with them. 

He feels the urge to call Beverly and hear his sister's voice, but doesn't want to bother her. She's whip smart and would know within a second that something was wrong. If she knew she would be on a plane before anyone could stop her. As much as he misses her, as much as he would find comfort in her sitting at breakfast with Jack this morning, he just can't do it. 

So he goes inside and eats breakfast with Jack, enjoys the comfortable silence. He can feel the itch in his brain though, the one telling him that there are new words that need to find their way onto the page. 

“I know that look.” Jack says, amused. 

“Which one?”

“The one that says you're about to disappear into your office and start banging away at the keyboard.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Only to anyone who knows you. Which, let's face it, isn't that many people, so you're safe.”

“Ha ha. You're a comedian.” It's a grumble, but it's fond. 

He clears away the dishes and retreats to his study. Despite the anticipation of contact from Bedelia Du Maurier, the story is still waiting to be written. 

Right now he's with his parents. They're getting ready for bed, comfortable and easy with each other. When this night comes they have been married for nearly ten years and there are no signs of their love for each other diminishing. Will finds himself writing about the way his mother's hair curls and how much his father loved her smile. They met in college and were inseparable from the first date. 

He can hear his mother's soft voice, careful not to wake their beloved son down the hall. She hails from the deep south and her accent will never change. 

She will never grow any older. She will never sigh at wrinkles in the mirror or worry that he husband no longer finds her attractive. His father will never consider dying his gray hairs and chastise himself for vanity.

Will is committing their last night to the page. Already there is a darkness creeping in at the edges of the cosy domesticity. He remembers being particularly hard to put to bed that night, making his father check both the closet and under his bed for monsters, secretly wishing he was still small enough to crawl in with his parents for comfort. Outside there is a man waiting for darkness to fall, it is almost certainly man, for his parents' death was not a crime that a woman would commit. They would murder certainly, but not like that. 

A woman wouldn't have been able to do what was done to his mother. 

His fingers stop typing when his mother's eyes fly open and she jostles his father awake. There is someone in the house. 

Will realises then that he has been crying. He looks out of his window and remembers finding the bodies of his parents downstairs having slept through it all. His training tells him that the killer probably used him as a threat to keep his parents quiet throughout the ordeal. Be quiet, or I will hurt your son. 

He was such as heavy sleeper as a child. 

Jack appears at his elbow, having heard the silence from the room. He's brought tea, not coffee. It was what Bella would give him when she found him in the living room in the dead of night. It smells like her comfort. 

“The contract arrived by courier about half an hour ago. It came with this.” It's a cell phone, shiner and more modern than Will's battered, ancient flip phone. 

“There's only one number in it, I checked.”

He hands Will both the phone and the contract.

“The courier will come back in five hours and take your response to Mr Lecter.”

“Thanks Jack. Have you read it?”

“Parts. You'll want to read it yourself.”

“I suppose so.”

“Well I'll leave you to it.”

Will will miss Jack when he leaves. He has work to do, killers to catch. He has at least three open cases that he knows of, none of which he has requested Will's help for. Jack only asks for his help when all his other options are exhausted. 

He thumbs through the contract, skimming over the parts about payment, including Bedelia's generous fee. 

Hannibal requests that a room be readied for him at Will's home so as to provide round the clock protection. He also reserves the right to move Will to a safer location at his discretion. Access to any findings from the FBI crime lab and access to the publisher and lawyer. There are parts that read more like a private investigator. He wonders if that's normal for Hannibal or if Will has piqued his interest. 

I'm calling him Hannibal, he thinks. I barely met him. Will shakes his head. He'll have to remember to call him Mr Lecter until invited to use his first name. 

He signs his name and sets the contract aside. He'll need to clean the place up a little, order a new bed. The second bedroom is currently empty aside from a small table where he ties his lures and a bookcase, which can stay there. 

Despite the circumstances, he feels a little thrill at the thought of Mr Lecter living under the same roof. He hasn't allowed himself any interest in anyone since the fiasco with Molly, not that he's been out and about enough to meet anyone new. He even orders his groceries online. 

But there was something about the power of those shoulders under the suit. 

He'll let himself think things like that, he decides. I can keep my thoughts in my own head and not embarrass myself. 

So he busies himself with ordering the new bed, to be delivered the next day. Drinks his tea. Gets an odd look from Jack when he starts cleaning up, tidying away some of his clutter. 

“If someone else is going to be staying here I'd better call Vera.”

Vera is a woman from Wolf Trap who felt so sorry for the 'lonely bachelor' that she basically bullied her way into being his cleaning lady. She makes a mean chocolate chip cookie and has zero tolerance for bullshit. If she finds out Will has a guest and didn't call her first she'll be very, very disappointed.

He calls her and tries to ignore the excitement in her voice. He knows she won't spread any rumours, having seen her once threaten Freddie Lounds with a broom handle to protect Will's privacy. 

“You just take the dogs for a long walk, Mr Graham, and when you come back everything will be ready.”

“You could come over tomorrow, Vera.”

“Nonsense. I'll be there in an hour.”

So he and Jack end up taking a walk with the dogs to Alana and Margot's house, where he's greeted by a curious Alana and worried looking Abigail.

“Alana told me you're getting a bodyguard.”

“I am. Just until we figure out what's going on.”

She hugs him then, tightly. She rarely initiates any physical contact with anyone, so he just awkwardly pats her hair and lets her squeeze him. 

They eat some lunch and depart with full bellies and a little lighter in spirits. The dogs, sensing his mood, are playful all the way home. 

Vera has been as good as her word. The house looks spotless, aside from his office, which she never touches. 

He vows to buy her something very, very nice for her birthday. 

The courier knocks right on time, ferrying the contract back to Mr Lecter. Some time later the phone that came with it rings. 

“Mr Graham. I am glad to see that you will be accepting my services.”

“Yes thank you. I've made sure that a room will be ready for you here by tomorrow.” He fidgets with the edge of a blanket on the chair. 

“I will arrive around seven. Mr Crawford will then be free to return to work.”

“Thank you Mr Lecter. I'll see you then.”

He ends the call. Then he dials his publisher and asks for Hannibal Lecter to be added on to the list of people who can contact them on his behalf. 

Though it's warm in the room he finds himself shivering. His house in Wolf Trap has always felt safe. Now something unknown lurks outside the door and he's about to invite a wolf inside for protection. 

It means opening his doors up again, both physically and mentally. He knows he'll have to go further than the end of the dirt track. It will require him to be social.

What the hell, he thinks. When have I ever done anything half assed?

He finds Jack in on the porch, drinking what he suspects is whiskey spiked coffee. 

“You have open cases right now, don't you Jack?”

“Of course I do. Serial killers pop up like weeds these days. Unwanted and hard to get rid of.”

“I want back in.” He's as firm as he can be. 

“What? You said that you were done.”

“I was. But it's time to go back into the world a little. Poke things and see what happens.”

“That didn't work out well last time.”

“We're alive aren't we?” tries for an optimism he wants to feel. 

“Fine. But you bring Hannibal Lecter with you wherever you go.”

Will had known there wouldn't be too much resistance. Jack needs his help too much, has restrained himself from asking out of care for Will. 

“Get yourself settled with Lecter. I'll bring over some casefiles tomorrow night.”

He was happy here in Wolf Trap with only his dogs and the company he chose to include in his life. But someone is forcing him back out into the open. It used to be a rush, helping Jack save lives. Perhaps it can be again.

“He wants access to the publisher, the mail.”

“He'll have it. And anything I can give, too.”

“Something else will come, now. He won't stop now, the man who killed Lizzie.”

“No. I'd imagine the first thing Lecter will do is try and find out where he's getting his information.”

“Do Price and Zeller have any results yet?”

“Just that Lizzie was killed with a knife, which we knew. No fingerprints or DNA. He was careful.”

Almost too careful. The letter writer is very, very angry with Will. With that amount of anger should come overkill. But it was so neat. Something about that bothers him, it's so definitely connected. Any day a letter will come, taking responsibility. 

It may already be on its way.

But the mental distance bothers him. It was done too easily.

“She didn't suffer though, it was instant.” he says, almost to himself. 

“No, she didn't. It was clean.”

Too clean. His brain will worry away at it all night. Distracting him from the thought of Hannibal Lecter being just a hallway away from tomorrow. 

He should be afraid, any normal person would be. But he isn't, not really. Angry at Lizzie's death, curious about who killed her. But not afraid. It's like something dormant inside him is stretching its muscles, coming alive again. 

He can hear the sounds of Jack puttering around in the living room and settles down with the dogs to wait. 

Nothing he can do until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a blink and you could miss it reference to rape in this chapter.


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal has spent the last two nights keeping watch on the Graham house. 

Aside from the scream of a mating fox the nights have been mostly silent. He found himself glad when his courier had arrived with the signed contract, more than he would have admitted to anyone else out loud. 

The quiet around the house had worried him. Being angry enough to kill a beloved pet was deeply personal and spoke of a relationship between the killer and victim, real or imagined. There should have been something. 

So he packs up his bag and checks out of his hotel. Bedelia assured him that his favoured weapons were on their way and would be delivered as soon as she was able. As usual she would deal with any necessary paperwork.

On the official weapons, anyway.

 

When he arrives in Wolf Trap, he can see Will from a distance, surrounded by his dogs. Even from the this far, Hannibal can see a change in him. A man in his element, or one of them. The dogs begin to bark in Hannibal's direction and Will turns and waves.

Jack Crawford is standing on the porch, cradling a mug of coffee. Hannibal can smell from where he stands that expensive coffee seems to be Will's one indulgence outside of his dogs.

“Good Morning Mr Crawford.”

“Please, call me Jack. Would you like a coffee?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

He leads Hannibal into a house that is considerably tidier than it was on his last visit. Lily of the valley lingers in the fabrics of the living room. Another woman, perhaps. Older, motherly. She probably left cookies for Will.

Crawford hands him a steaming mug.

“Will has a room ready for you.”

“I will need a list of all the cases that Will has worked on with you in the past.”

“You'll have it. It's about to get longer too. Will's asked to consult with the Bureau again.”

Hannibal finds himself smiling a little. Will clearly does nothing by halves. He knows that this will bring him out into the world again one way or another. 

“He has a talent for it.”

“Yes, he does.” Sadness and pride war in Crawford's face. Perhaps before his parent's death Will had wanted to be a fireman, or a vet. He would probably have been good at whatever he chose to do, for when he allowed his empathy connect with others they would be drawn to him. But instead he had been set down a different path, one on which his empathy was attuned to darkness.

Before his parent's death Hannibal had wanted to be a painter. 

“I'll be going into the office today. I'll be back later with some casefiles.” 

The room Will Graham has prepared for him is clean and homely. The wallpaper is obviously old but not in bad condition. A bookcase stands against one wall, filled with forensic texts, slim volumes of poetry and fiction. The lure tying table sits in front of a large bay window. On one wall is an oil canvas of a stormy sea, which when Hannibal looks closer is signed B Crawford. The single bed has a well cared for quilt and blanket.

He hangs his clothes in the small closet and looks out of the window. He can see Will, surrounded by his pack, saying goodbye to Crawford. They hug before Crawford climbs into his car. 

Will stands for a minute and watches him drive away. 

Hannibal turns back to his unpacking until he hears the door and the scrabble of paws on the wooden floor. 

He's looking forward to being alone with Will. The hall is busy with the dogs, Will moving among them with a towel trying to get the worst of the mud off of their paws. 

“Is the room alright?” He doesn't look up at Hannibal as he asks. 

“It is very comfortable.”

“I have to admit, I'm not sure what to do now.” He looks up then, over the rims of his glasses. 

“First we need to take a drive out to your publisher. Someone there is telling tales to your letter writer, though they may not know to whom they are betraying you.”

“It's so crazy. They've only had two chapters and an outline. “

“Your books generate a great deal of interest.”

“Yes, they do.” His last book, released almost five years ago, was so successful Will could never type another word and live comfortably. 

“On what is this book based?” Hannibal asks politely. 

“You probably already know that my parents were murdered.”

Hannibal just nods. 

“I've never written about it before. I didn't remember very well, or didn't want to anyway. But lately, I've been thinking about my parents so much it's just been impossible to let them go.”

“So you have been writing about them.”

Will runs his hands through his hair. He's frustrated. Hannibal pictures him suddenly as one of Caravaggio's dirty cherubs, or perhaps as the Isaac that sits in the Uffizi, with his frozen horrified cry. The column of his throat is distracting. 

“I can't stop. I don't even know how anything ends!”

“Could it be that someone else does?”

“Or thinks they do.”

Will is assessing him again. Hannibal finds he rather likes it, some of a rather less intense persuasion might find it off-putting to be so completely examined.

Hannibal shouldn't like it. He should not want anyone to know him as completely as he suspects this man may come to know him. The things he has done in his past are very artfully hidden with good reason. Like the blank sections of an ancient map, there are parts of Hannibal's personality that should read 'here be monsters'. Or just one monster, perhaps.

 

“Either way. They are very angry with you. There is something that bothers me about the death of your dog.”

Sharp eyes. When did he take the glasses off? Hannibal didn't notice.

“Whoever is writing to you is very, very angry. To kill a pet is a personal message, yet there was no overkill. It was almost humane.”

“That's pretty much what I was thinking about last night.”

“There is something here that I believe is more than an angry or disgruntled fan, Will.”

“You mean you don't always stay over?”

He's trying for teasing, but his expression is on the verge of fluttering shut again.

“No, I do not.”

“If you call me Will, does that mean I can call you Hannibal?”

“If you wish.”

“Well then Hannibal, let me get changed and we can drive into the city. I'll call ahead and let them know.”

 

Hannibal drives them in his rented Bentley. His concealed carry licence was approved not a moment too soon, allowing him to strap on a holster beneath his jacket. Will surprises him with his own holster, woollen overcoat that conceals a Kahr pistol. 

He catches Hannibal looking.

“Jack made me get one. Just in case.”

“Ah. He is truly protective of you.”

Will smiles, watching the countryside go by the windows.  
“He made it a condition of my visiting any crime scenes. I haven't worn it in quite a while.”

He directs Hannibal as they arrive in the city towards the offices of Chilton and Budge, his publisher. 

“My agent will meet us there too. I should warn you, Franklyn can be a lot the first time you meet him, but he's very good.”

The offices are located in a shared tower block, with parking an undergound garage. Hannibal is instantly on alert. He scans the space, noting the probably spotty CCTV and cover provided by the large concrete pillars. 

He parks as close to the elevator doors as he can and ushers Will quickly inside. He doesn't comment, just lets Hannibal push him along a little with a hand on his back. 

Will pushes the button for the twentieth floor.

“I hadn't thought about the parking garage.” 

“That is why you require my help then.” Hannibal says smoothly.

When the doors open they're met by a cheerful man whom Will allows to hug him. 

He extends a friendly hand to Hannibal.

“Franklyn Froideveaux, Will's agent. You must be Mr Lecter. Will called ahead to say you were coming.”

Hannibal shakes the offered hand. He looks at Will, who is clearly holds some affection for Franklyn. Most likely the man is so relentlessly cheerful he completely ignores Will's awkwardness and carries on regardless, never treating Will any differently from anyone else of his acquaintance. 

“Frederick is waiting for us in his office, Will.”

“Lead the way, Franklyn.”

Along the corridor there are prints of book covers from the house's most famous authors. The cover of Will's last book catches his eye. Will's name and a stylised skull, hollow eyes and large teeth. 

“Margot's design. She began doing commercial work after she was...disowned. It's how she met Alana.”

The book was based on a killer named Randall Tier, not very well known except in the psychiatric community. He had believed himself to be a wild beast and torn his victims to pieces. Will had pointed Jack Crawford in the right direction leading to his capture. The fictionalised version had focused heavily on a renamed Randall's sessions with a psychologist leading to his murders. It was the book Hannibal had read on the plane and found insightful.

Frederick Chilton's office is on the building's corner with a beautiful view of the Baltimore skyline. While not as dramatic as New York of London, Hannibal thought it had a certain charm.

The same might be said of the man himself. Hannibal found his double breasted suit distasteful, but he seemed genuinely pleased to see Will.

“Will! I can't believe you actually set foot in the city again. I thought you were dead set on a life of solitude and hermitage.”

“I was. But someone has other ideas, unfortunately.”

“Ah yes, this business with the letters. Unfortunate.”

“This is Hannibal Lecter. He's my protection until this is over.”

Chilton whistles low. 

“Well anything Chilton and Budge can do.”

Hannibal clears his throat.

“We need to know the names of anyone who has access to the first drafts of Will's work.”

“Of course.” Chilton rattles off a list of names on a yellow legal pad and hands it over to Hannibal. Himself, Froideveaux and Budge as well as two senior editors and a lawyer. 

Will looks down the list.

“I don't recognise that name. Kade Purnell.”

“She's pretty new in legal. She used to work for Wolfram and Hart.”

Hannibal has heard of Wolfram and Hart. They skirt the barest letter of the law often and represent the sort of people that Hannibal would take a paid job to kill. 

If Purnell is the one passing on information she'll never talk. 

“Call her up here.” he tells Chilton. 

Chilton looks dubious but picks up the phone. Will has gone tense by Hannibal's side.

“Hello. Yes Francesca, can I speak to Ms Purnell?”

He clearly doesn't get the answer he expected.

“Well check her office then. I'll wait.”

He hums for a moment, catching Will's eyes and rolling his own theatrically.

Then his attention is caught by the phone and all the animation drains from his face, along with all colour. The handset of the phone begins to tremble along with his hand.

He hangs it up, missing the cradle twice. 

“Kade Purnell is dead. Francesca...her body is in the office. I don't understand, I saw her this morning in the lobby.”  
“Call Jack Crawford.” Hannibal tells Will. “Stay right here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check the body and also make sure whoever killed her has definitely left the building. Alert your security Mr Chilton. Lock this building down if you can. Lock the door of this office and don't open it for anyone but me or Jack.”

He makes sure that they've locked the door behind him before taking the stairwell down to the next floor, where Chilton told him legal was. There's nobody else on the stair. 

The young woman who must be Francesca is shivering in the corridor outside Purnell's office. 

“She wouldn't answer, so I touched her. Her head. There's a hole in her head.”

Hannibal puts a hand on her shoulder and guides her over onto a chair. 

“Did you see anyone else this morning go into that office?”

“Just the mail guy and someone delivering coffee. But Ms Purnell is always here before me.”

“Who was last?”

“The coffee guy. He had the uniform on from the place down the street.”

“What time was that?”

“About 11.”

At the same time he and Will had been driving here someone had probably shot Kade Purnell. 

He puts a leather glove on and opens the door. A handsome redhead in life, Purnell has had two shots to the chest and one to the head. 

There's absolutely no rage here. Will will know better, but Hannibal's own instincts are telling him this was professional and organised. Someone as angry as Will's stalker should never be able to pull this off in broad daylight and slip in and out under everyone's noses. 

He hears the sirens outside, takes Francesca upstairs and knocks on Chilton's office door. .

“A professional killed Kade Purnell.” He speaks directly to Will. 

“She must have been the one passing along information. But why would a hitman be interested in a crime novel, or me?”

“A question we must answer.”

“Will Jack want me to look at the body?”

“I don't think so. There is nothing unusual about Ms Purnell's murder in terms of its execution. It is almost banal.”

Will shakes his head. 

“Well I suppose we found out what we wanted to know.”

 

Jack arrives and has agents escort them from the building. All in all clearing the building takes several hours. Will is quiet all the way back to Wolf Trap. 

Hannibal boils the kettle and waits for Will to speak.

“It's so clumsy.”

“What do you mean?”

“It leads us right to Purnell. She was a lawyer for Wolfram and Hart, underhanded is their middle name. She would never have told us anything, killing her just confirms that she was talking to someone.”

Hannibal pours the hot water and considers his answer, though he had thought the same. It pleases him that Will's mind works along such parallel lines. 

“It speaks to a level of impulsivity not usually displayed by professional killers.”

“What if the one who physically killed Purnell isn't the one actually sending the letters? It's just another job?”

“That would explain the lack over overkill with Lizzie.”

While Hannibal stirs, he considers what kind of contractor would complete such a job. Bedelia might know a man who knows a man, as usual. 

It would need to be done discreetly, such an enquiry, but it could be done. 

Will thanks him for the coffee and retires to his study two write. Hannibal can hear the noise of the keys, rapid and firm. 

He checks all the windows and doors, cleans and reassembles his rifle. When it reaches late evening and there is no sign of Will letting up he lets the dogs out into the yard and keeps a watchful eye on them.

His stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten since breakfast at the hotel that morning, so he digs through Will's surpsiringly well stocked fridge. There's enough for some nice pan roasted trout with new potatoes and butter sauce. 

The smell must rouse Will from his reverie in the study, as he appears in the doorway.

“You didn't have to do this.”

“I was hungry. You seemed busy with your work.”

“I was expecting you to keep things more separate. You know, professional, I guess.”  
“Or we could socialise like adults. God forbid we should become friendly.”

Will laughs. 

“What if I don't find you that interesting?”

Hannibal looks up and meet's Will's eyes. 

“You will.”

They talk little more over dinner, both aware that nothing more can be done until morning. Hannibal has called Bedelia, who will do what she can. They talk idly about fish, which Will enjoys catching and Hannibal enjoys eating. Will speaks of Abigail Hobbs, whom he takes fishing regularly.

They part for bed around ten thirty. Hannibal will not sleep just yet and he suspects Will may not either. One of the dogs, a small terrier mix accompanies him to his room. The animal seems to have become especially fond of him, to Will's amusement. 

He does not allow himself more than a fleeting thought of Will Graham undressing for bed just down the hallway. He wonders what a man like Will dreams of, if he remembers in the morning. 

 

When he does sleep, he is woken by the rattle of the door. He gets of bed and down the corridor with his beretta in complete silence. Maybe it's another professional, maybe the letter writer grown bold.

Then he sees Will Graham, dressed only in boxers, trying to open his own front door. 

Sleepwalking, most certainly. He gets closer, says “Will.” 

Will's eyes are unnervingly open but unseeing. He remembers when they were very small Mischa would sometimes sleepwalk out of her bed and into his room, so he does now what he did then and takes Will's hand in his own, leads him back to bed. 

He has known Will Graham less than a week, yet when he helps him back into bed he feels a surge of tenderness. Mixed of course with a little lust, for Hannibal is only human and Will Graham is beautiful. 

Hannibal settles into the chair next to the window and settles in to keep watch until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line about finding Hannibal interesting is directly lifted from 1x01.


	6. Chapter 6

Will is confused when he wakes up. He's covered in a blanket, for one. He usually wakes up chilly, damp with his own sweat. He wallows for a moment, comfortable. The warm weight across his legs is Winston.

Then he sees Hannibal sleeping in the chair across the room. His face is smooth in sleep, the early morning light emphasising the angles of his face. An interesting face that carries its years and pains in the grooves around an expressive mouth. 

He wants to ask why he's there, but doesn't want to end a moment where for once his brain is calm, comforted.

One of the dogs barks then and Hannibal comes awake. He seems to go from sleep to full alertness immediately, which Will files away for later. 

“Good Morning.” His voice though. Still so sleepy, accent thicker. It sends a little shiver up Will's spine. 

Hannibal is in his room, with his gravel voice, wearing pyjama trousers. His feet are bare, for Christ's sake.

He manages to mumble morning back. Is aware of his own messy hair and sweat damp clothes.

“Are you are, Will, that you walk in your sleep?”

“I haven't done it in years. Jack and Bella went crazy one night because I managed to get out of the house and most of the way down the street. They were so worried.”

Will knows he's blushing.

“I'm sorry I woke you.”

“Not at all.”

Hannibal stretches then, and Will doesn't really know where to put his eyes. Hannibal is lean muscle and scar tissue. An old bullet wound in the shoulder, a knife on the arm. 

“Would you like breakfast Will? I brought some food with me yesterday. I'm very particular about what I put in my body.”

I bet you are, Will thinks admiringly.

“I'd, uh, like that.”

“Well, I will see you in the kitchen.”

As he stands up, Stitch gets up and follows him. Will can't really blame her. Then he tries to shake it off, because now is not the time to get an inconvenient hard-on for an unavailable man. 

So he gets up and showers. His feet aren't dirty, which means he didn't make it outside at least. Given what's happened over the last few days, the thought of wandering outside alone asleep is worrying, to say the least. 

Hannibal has started off by protecting Will from himself, first night on the job. 

True to his word, Hannibal is in the kitchen cooking breakfast. It smells good, even to Will, who usually has a low grade nausea till at least nine thirty most days. 

“Protein scramble. Sausage, peppers, onions.”

He looks at ease here in Will's kitchen. A shape shifter, Will thinks. He could be as at home at the Opera or on a battleffield.

Will idly flicks through the mail they picked up while at Chilton and Budge. One is a large envelope, bulging a little. He has a moment of clarity as he tears at the envelope. It is the second part of the message sent with Purnell's death.

Glossy photographs fall out of the envelope. A beautiful young Asian woman walking along the street, getting in her car, laughing with her friends. 

The whole thing falls from Will's seemingly nerveless fingers. 

“Motherfucker.”

Hannibal is beside him, picking up one of the pictures of Beverly. His phone is in his other hand. He will have to call Jack, who will not take the news of his other child being in danger well.

Poor Bev, she will hate being bundled up into FBI custody. He is only half listening to what Hannibal says to Jack. He hasn't felt this intensely angry or scared since they day he pulled the trigger on Garret Jacob Hobbs. 

The pendulum swings briefly. Clarity makes him suddenly calm.

He must be paying someone to do this. More than one, maybe. The one who took these pictures, the one who killed Kade Purnell, they're just tools. His money does the talking, this man who is threatening Will and the ones he loves.

He wants to call Beverly, and he will, when he's sure she's safe with the local field office in New York.

“Hannibal, please find someone you trust and engage them to stay with my sister. The money isn't a problem.”

“Of course.”

The man who hired these professionals has not yet killed a human being by his own hands. Will is sure of it. But why not pay for Will's own death right away?

Hannibal comes back from his call.

“I engaged the services of a woman of my acquaintance by the name of Chiyoh. There is no one I would trust more.” 

“You've figured it out too, haven't you?”

“That our letter writer cannot be in several places at once? Yes. The man who killed Kade Purnell was a professional. If they had a dispute with you, they would not waste time with letters. They would simply kill you.”

“He has the resources to hire a high quality assassin and least one other person to keep tabs on my sister. It also explains why Lizzie was killed so cleanly. It was an order, not personal, not for the actual killer. Why not just kill me?”

“Perhaps the man threatening you is attached to you somehow. His interest in you is personal. He may wish to keep you alive for his own reasons.”

He's aware that Hannibal is very close to him. 

“Jack told me that you only take certain jobs. Why did you take this one, Hannibal?”

If he's surprised by the question Hannibal doesn't show it.

“A very long time ago, something was taken from the world that would have done it a great deal of good. When we met I thought the same of you. While I admire your skill as a writer, I speak of your work with the FBI. You subject yourself to horrific things so that you can save the lives of others.”

Will looks into his eyes, looking for a lie, but doesn't find any.

“You have an astonishing amount of empathy, which allows you to assume anyone's point of view. Every time you assume the point of view of a killer, it must hurt you deeply.”

He touches Will's shoulder like an anchor.

 

Will does what he always does when his head gets too full: he writes. He is in the aftermath with his younger self, who is clinging to a younger Jack Crawford like a lifeline. He describes the young Jack in as much detail as he can, with as much love as he can convey. He will change the ending for this Jack, who will get his man in the end and will never lose the woman he loves.

It is the benefit of fiction that enables his young detective to discover evidence that eluded them in real life. The more modern story setting allows for DNA to be swabbed from his mother's body.

The casefile tells him that swabs were indeed taken from his mother and that there were semen stains found on her cut clothing, but the evidence is long gone, destroyed by fire. The killer was a type O+ secreter, which is all they know after all these years.

He came and went, leaving only a terrified young boy and all that blood. 

For the first time in his life, Will cannot empathise with this killer. He has everyone else, from his parents to Jack and the others working the case. But the killer is a blank.

He shuts everything down in frustration and rubs his eyes. 

Beverly calls, and he listens to her worry and her love on the line. The woman Chiyoh has arrived in New York, which reassures him.  
Jack comes by with the promised casefiles, delayed by Purnell's death. Hannibal, who cleaned his guns while Will wrote, has moved on to cooking again and they both sit down with Jack. He updates them on Beverly, who is getting on a plane tomorrow morning, escorted by Chiyoh. Will knows he will feel better when both of his children are in easy reach. 

“Purnell was definitely your leak. She made a lot of calls to burner phones and her bank accounts are suspicious as hell. But she's been keeping tabs on you ever since she was hired.”

“Which begs the question, who was paying her?”

“We don't know yet. The usual shell game with the money. This food is excellent, Hannibal.”

Hannibal thankfully doesn't mention Will's sleepwalking. Jack leaves three thick binders on the table and bids them goodnight, promising to call as soon as Beverly and Chiyoh are with him. It kills two birds with one stone, now someone will be looking out for both of them.

Will picks up the first file and begins to scan through, mug of steaming coffee at his side. Hannibal is on his laptop idly doing whatever bodyguards do on then internet, Will supposes. 

The first casefile is easy to get into. It's almost too easy and not the sort of case Jack would call him in on. An interstate serial killer whose victims are young women in a high risk lifestyle situation- gone unnoticed for years because of local apathy to the victims. The sexual component is clear in the strangulation and assaults, bodies disposed of like broken dolls. Ardelia's profile is spot on – late thirties, white. Certainly mobile. The cooling off period still consistent after a decade. All he can do with this one is wait for another body and try to get to the crime scene as soon as possible. Make sure that locals near trucking hubs keep an eye out for the MO. Some of the scenes haven't even been processed properly so he'd need Price and Zeller.

When he looks up he realises it's getting dark and the dogs must be restless.

“I will accompany you if you are to walk the dogs.” Hannibal says, unfolding himself.

“Good idea.”

Hannibal straps on his beretta and they head out, dogs in tow. It's a cool night, quiet in the fields. Stitch is still keeping close to Hannibal, who stops every so often to scratch her ears. 

“Do you hunt, Will?” Hannibal asks.

“Sometimes, yes. Deer mainly. When I was very young in the South my Dad used to hunt alligators.”

“I admit I have never tasted alligator.”

“It's pretty good.”

Hannibal scans the treeline.

“I have made it known in my particular community that I am protecting you, Will. The man paying them will surely find there are less willing to take his money.”

“They're afraid of you.”  
A slight twitch of that mouth. Dangerous, Will reminds himself. You know almost nothing about him.

But he wants to kiss that mouth.

“Only the very desperate or greedy would wish to cross me. I fear your letter writer is both. If you continue to write this book, to carry on as you are, he will eventually take the risk of revealing himself to hurt you.”

“We need to find the man behind the curtain.”

“I have a suggestion, though you may not like it.”

Will looks back at his house. From the distance it is like a lighthouse, calling him to the safety of the shore. 

“Meet with Ms Lounds and announce that you are giving up on this novel. Use one of the cases Jack has given you and say that you will be working with the FBI for the forseeable future. Work on your own in as complete secrecy as you can manage. Give yourself time to find this man.”

“So he thinks I've taken the warnings.”

“Yes, exactly.”

He sighs. 

“I can only think of one person who would want this novel unfinished.”

Hannibal is silent. In the oncoming darkness, his eyes glint. 

“Who, Will?”

“The man who killed my parents.”


	7. Chapter 7

Hannibal had said little on the way back to the house. Will too had been silent after their talk, seemingly deep in thought.

The killer of Will's parents could not have been a young man. Hannibal has examined the materials on Will's desk and knows enough to know that their killer was too confident and organised for it to be his first kill. There was too much which could have gone wrong for him. 

And he had never killed that way again. Like an urge or curiosity sated, then abandoned. Perhaps Will is still alive now because he survived then- the same reason, just as opaque now as ever. 

It would explain perhaps why a proxy is needed for hands on work, if the killer has aged. An old man could not have slipped in and out so well of Chilton and Budge or followed Beverly Katz around so subtly. 

He is old and fears being caught for his crime and so must try and scare Will into silence, away from the night that his parents were taken from him.

But oh, he clearly does not know Will.

If anything Will appears stronger, more vital with every threat that comes. Like Hannibal himself he seems to thrive while in danger. The look on his face when he realised that his sister was being watched was murderous and exquisite. 

Hannibal will keep watch on him again to guard against any sleepwalking incidents. He does not mind, for it will give him a chance to further study Will.

Will is getting ready for bed and appears to be constantly on the verge of saying something, but Hannibal does not prompt him. He will get there in his own time. He has known Will less than a week and spent only one night in his house so far, yet he already fancies he is coming to understand him a little.

He knows that Will will eventually come to understand him too, which fills him with both anticipation and a little dread. 

“You could lie on the bed, you know.” Will says, clutching the material of his shirt in his fist.

Hannibal is careful not to answer too quickly, though he has the urge to put his hands on Will everywhere. 

“If you would be alright with you. It would certainly be more comfortable.”

“I haven't done that in years. Walked in my sleep. When I was a teenager I did it a lot.”

When his mind was in the middle of a tumultuous change. Hormonal surges would have had interesting effects on his personality. The sexual awakening of someone with such strong empathy must have been extremely difficult. What is your own and what belongs to the others with whom you interact?

“I will make sure that you do not wander far, if indeed you do try.”

“Thank you.”

Hannibal weighs the benefits of being honest with Will about his attraction to him. He is not blind and has seen the way Will has looked at him. 

“In the interest of honesty between us Will, I must admit that I feel a certain attraction for you. If that makes you uncomfortable then I will take my rest in the chair.” 

Will's hands still. He blushes slightly but looks Hannibal in the eyes. 

“It's an odd time, isn't it. I should be so scared I shouldn't even be able to think about being attracted to someone. But I'm...yes. It doesn't make me uncomfortable at all.”

“We will find out who wants to hurt you and your family, Will.”

Hannibal takes a step closer to him and carefully places a hand on Will's face. The effect is immediate and electric. Will sighs and leans his face into the touch, relaxing. 

“We need to go to my old house. I need to see it again. I need to remember. One of the cases Jack gave me, the killer is heading down that interstate. It's a good cover. ” Will's eyes slip shut. 

“Are you sure? Returning there could be unpleasant.”

“Yes. I'm sure.”

Hannibal has never been to New Orleans. He will go there with Will and they will hunt together for the killer of Will's parents and the man who sits behind the curtain threatening what Will now holds dear, for they are one in the same. 

Perhaps it will be one hunt together of many to come. 

“Come to bed with me, Hannibal.”

“I have already said that I would.”

“No, I mean, come to bed with me. Kiss me, Hannibal.”

He could not say no to such a request, breathy and with lips brushing his palm, so he takes Will's face in both hands and kisses him with all the need that he feels.

Will's hands come to rest on his waist and there they stand for many moments, learning the feeling of each other's mouths.

When they pull apart Will is breathing heavily.

“This is crazy. I've only known you a few days but I feel like we're so...I don't know. I feel so turned on. It's like you light my whole brain up.”

“It is possible to feel instant attraction. For a physical form but also for two minds to recognise something in the other. I am not immune. I have a compassion for you which is unusual for me.”

Will catches his mouth again and his hands move under Hannibal's shirt. The noises he makes go directly to Hannibal's cock. He wants him to make those noises all the time. He wants to lay Will out like a banquet and lick into him as the feast he is. 

But he has a job to do, and he will do it.

Will groans again.

“I know what you're going to say. You're going to say we need to wait until this is done.”

“I fear I would not want to stop once I have had you once. I am here to protect you. To make sure that you come to no harm. I want you, Will. I want to see all of you. We will be together like this, but you are right. I fear we must wait.”

“You find me that distracting?”

“You know that I do. We must not let our guard down.”

He takes a step back. Will does too, running a hand through his hair. Hannibal's eyes are drawn to the obvious bulge of him. 

“We should be able to get flights out to Louisiana after I do my interview with Freddie Lounds. If I'm right, Jack's interstate killer should drop a body in Louisiana fairly soon. We can visit the old house. It's still empty.”

Nobody had wanted a house so famous for such a terrible crime. Hannibal imagines it being slowly eaten alive by creeping kudzu. 

They settle into the bed, surrounded by the dogs. Hannibal opens his arms for Will, who sighs in contentment and seems to find easy sleep.

Perhaps tomorrow Bedelia will have some more information on the hired help, as well. He wonders if the man at the centre of this realises what he has awoken. Will is now on the trail of two killers and his track record shows that he has never allowed a killer to go uncaught.

He wonders what finally pushed Will to start writing the story of his parent's murder. A perfect storm of emotions and experience that have brought Hannibal now to his door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap folks! Life happened.

Freddie Lounds arrives early the next morning. Will had wryly observed that she would run out on her own mother's funeral for the chance to interview him again. 

A striking woman in her mid thirties, she has built a career out of venturing where other people fear to tread. Hannibal watches closely as Will delivers his prepared statement on his retirement from writing. Lounds is very clearly not buying a line of what Will's selling and is almost amused. He tells her that he will be devoting all of his time to investigating for Jack as a consultant and throws her the story of the serial killer currently winding his way towards New Orleans. 

She records it all faithfully, looking curiously at Hannibal every so often.

“You're some piece of work, Graham.” She says as she takes a picture of him to accompany the article. 

“At least it's mutually beneficial.”

“True. You sell copy.”

She packs up her things.

“Whatever you're doing, good luck.”

Her red hair is very bright under the sun as she climbs back into her car. 

“She was a surprising woman.” Hannibal watches her pull away.

“We've had a few run ins over the years. She has a habit and talent for being in places she shouldn't.”

Will squares his shoulders.

“I need to go to Quantico. I need to pick up some credentials and re-certify on the firing range before we go. We can catch a red-eye tonight.”

“We eat first.”

Hannibal prepares a simple breakfast of eggs and bacon and makes sure Will sits still long enough to eat. He seems to be trying to feel his way around something he wants to say.

“Have you ever been married?” Hannibal is surprised by the question and shakes his head no around a mouthful of breakfast.

“I tried it once,” Will says awkwardly. “Being married I mean. Her name was Molly. She had a son from another relationship and it was really good for a while. I told her everything and she still married me, still loved me.”

“What happened?”

“The Tooth Fairy.” Will laughs, because what a stupid name for such a violent, terrible creature. “I got a call on a consult from Jack. It started out like usual, I'd just have a look over the files, give my impressions. It had always worked to keep me distant from the cases before.”

“But this time it did not work.”

“No. Freddie Lounds published her usual 'novelist helps FBI' piece about me. Only this time he was a fan of my work. He started pulling me in bit by bit.”

“I think it was easy to deal with for Molly when it was all in my past and my books were somehow working through that. But when the nightmares started again and I started having insights into the way his mind worked...she saw that it wasn't just trauma that made me the way I am. I was always going to think like killers because that's just how my mind works.”

He's absently petting Winston's head.

“Anyway, we got him in the end. But Molly didn't look at me the same way afterwards. And he left me this of course.” He indicates the scar on his forehead.

“Jack must feel very guilty.”

“He does. But I forgave him quite some time ago.”

“Our fathers are only human.” Hannibal remembers sharply the day he learned his own father had feet of clay.

“Even leaving your encounter with Mr Dolarhyde aside,” Hannibal says slowly, “your life has been eventful.”

“You know his name.”

“I looked you up when Uncle Jack called. I found you interesting.”

“They told me you only take certain jobs. That you don't just work for money.”

“And they are correct. I have no real need of payment, but I allow myself to be attached to jobs I feel will do a particular good.”

“What good did you feel this would do?”

“You use your ability to help Jack Crawford catch vicious killers. When read about you that was enough as I said before. When we met however I must admit I would have taken the job no matter what, for you intrigue me.”

“What made you do the job you do in the first place?”

“I found that I was good at violence. It came to me easily, yet I was uneasy with my capacity for it. So a compromise. I do what I am good at to a good end.”

Will says nothing in reply but the silence in comfortable. The dogs, whom Hannibal have found to be a good indicator of his mood, are comfortable and do not shy away from Hannibal himself.

“I haven't fired a gun since that night. I've been afraid. It felt so good to pull that trigger. I was so angry, covered in my own blood. Killing him felt so right in that moment.”

“It felt just.”  
“Yes.” It's a sigh.

Hannibal feels a little thrill at the sound of it. It must be some strange reward to have met Will, who seems to understand him so. It prompts his own honesty.

“I will tell you something I have not told anyone in a very long time. When I was a young boy I had a sister that I loved beyond all reason. Her name was Mischa. Where I was a very serious child, she was born laughing. At that time the border between Lithuania and Russia was....a difficult place. A group of soviet partisans raided our town for food. In the struggle, my sister was killed. It was that of which I spoke to you earlier.”

He finds Stitch has her head on his knee. He rubs her one crooked ear in his fingers.

Will does not say that he is sorry for his loss or try to comfort him. He understands that there is nothing that can be offered.

They make ready to leave, Will explaining that Alana or Margot will accompany Abigail out with the dogs while he's away.

“It's why I don't do long book tours, apart from all the rubberneckers.”

Hannibal raises a questioning eyebrow.

“There are always people around who just want to be close to me because of what happened to my parents and me. There was one guy who always tried to get me to sign things so he could sell them on some murderbilia site.”

“That sounds distateful.”

“It is.”

They drive to Quantico in comfortable silence, broken only by Will's directions. Hannibal has never had reason to travel there before and admits to himself that he is curious about the fabled home of the FBI.

As they pass through security and pick up the badges Jack Crawford has left them he feels the unmistakable presence of Chiyoh before he hears Will's name being called.

The young woman from the photographs flings herself at Will and into a bone crushing hug. Hannibal hangs back a respectful distance but allows a nod at Chiyoh, as beautiful as ever. He is introduced to the clearly curious Beverly, who shakes his hand firmly.

“Thank you for sending Chiyoh.”

“You are most welcome.”

“Can you and Will come for dinner tonight?”

“Unfortunately I do not believe that we are able. We must catch a flight directly after Will concludes his business here.”

“Where are you going?” She looks disappointed.  
“I'm surprised Freddie Lounds hasn't announced it to the world yet.” 

“She has.” Jack Crawford approaches, carrying Will's weapon and identification. Not a badge, but enough to get them by nonetheless. It will have the veneer of official FBI business. 

He hands a tablet to Hannibal. Ms Lounds announces Will's return to profiling sparing no lurid detail of the killer currently plying his trade. Will has utilised her nature perfectly to his own end. They can only hope now that this conceals their true reason for returning. 

They leave Will's family with promises to call on arrival in New Orleans before heading to the range. 

“It isn't usually this quiet.” Will says as he checks his weapon. 

“Jack must have cleared everyone out to give you some space.”

“Yeah, he's like that sometimes.” 

“Do you ever wonder what your relationship would have been like with your parents, had they lived?”

Will looks at him for a beat too long. He slides the protectors on his ears and a bullet in the chamber.

“Always.”


	9. Chapter 9

Will manages to sleep on the flight, light and dreamless. It could have something to do with Hannibal's presence next to him.

Usually Will isn't overly concerned with his wealth, but today it has bought him first class comfort and the luxury of not having any strangers in their row. As they head closer to New Orleans he starts to imagine the bustle of the French Quarter and the heat of the humid afternoons.

The home of his childhood had been happy. He rarely thinks of those days when his father raised him on his shoulders to better see the parades or his mother had treated him to a sugary beignet. His grandmother had died when he was five, but he vaguely remembers the colourful mardi gras cake that she brought over every year.

By the time of his parents murder his paternal grandparents had been too old to take in a child, especially one as traumatised as him. They had kept in touch though and visited him in Virginia.

They had loved him, but couldn't understand him.

Hannibal doesn't sleep. He refuses the offered drinks and food, a vague expression of distaste on his face. It's a face Will enjoys looking at entirely too much from any angle. He thinks it may be one of those faces which instead of looking older merely starts to look more interesting.

He made a few more calls before they left while Hannibal packed. The NOPD detectives on the current case but also they retired detectives who worked the scene at his parents house. Those calls he had made very, very carefully.

The visit to the house will need to wait until last. If they are still being watched, visiting the house will end the deception he has put into place.

“When we land we will be met by a driver of my acquaintance.” Hannibal breaks the easy silence as the lights go on for seatbelts, ready to descend.

“You have a lot of acquaintances, Hannibal.”

A quirk of that mouth. Will really, really likes Hannibal's mouth.

“It pays in my line of work to have trustworthy colleagues to call on. He will make himself available to us should we need extra help.”

“We need to work the two cases at once. I've arranged to meet with the taskforce tomorrow morning.”

“What about your parents?”

“I need to figure out where he saw them. How did he pick them?”

“So we need to know more about your parents then.” The pressure in the cabin changes and Will can feel his ears pop.

“They were normal people. Or I always thought they were. I need to know how they crossed paths with him.”

“We will have to step very carefully around our mysterious friend. His deep pockets may have bought more assistance in New Orleans.”

“I know.”

“We will find him. Wealth can breed arrogance. He is relying on hired help who do not have his passions. He will make a mistake.”

He touches Will's hand then, where it rests between them. It's just a small squeeze of reassurance but it makes Will's heart beat like crazy.

The plane hits the tarmac, breaking the moment. 

He tunes out of getting off of the plane, the baggage claim and security. He moves on autopilot with the ease of one who has been on too many flights to count. Aware only of Hannibal's position relative to himself.

Hannibal takes the lead as they exit. He guides Will to a younger man who looks as if he spends large amounts of time in the gym. 

“This is Matthew Brown. We have worked together in the past and I have found him to be helpful.”

Will nods, not missing either way that Brown looks him up and down slowly or the twitch of Hannibal's eyes that say he noticed it as well. He can tell that Hannibal isn't very fond of Brown to begin with.

“Please drive us to the hotel, Matthew.”

If Hannibal's tone had been cool before, it is now positively icy.

Brown seems smart enough to take the hint and doesn't try and engage in conversation on the drive, for which Will is glad. As they get into the city itself he's tempted to crack a window open. He suddenly wants to hear it, to smell it. 

A memory of cannonballing into the pool to cool off in the godawful humidity. His Mom's best friend's house. He'd called her Aunt Iris.

“She went back to work.”

Hannibal, who had been keeping both eyes firmly on Matthew, looks around.

“I just remembered. My Mom went back to work. Only part time, for a lawyer.”

Hannibal stays silent. Unspoken to wait until they are alone.

Will knows now though. His mother went back to work and that was where he saw her. The sway of her dress, the curl of her hair. Like Will, she had a gaze that looked directly into you. He had seen her and longed to have her.

He's angry suddenly, trying to hold back the flush in his skin. Angry with the man who took his family, angry at the one protecting him. Because it must be two, it must. Or perhaps one, now too old to do his own dirty work.

He stays quiet all through checking in to their suite, resentful of the two rooms. He's glad he let Hannibal choose the place though. It's gorgeous, the wide windows giving a beautiful view of the Quarter.

He walks onto the balcony. Leans on the rail, sorry he gave up smoking.

“Tell me what happened in the car Will.” Hannibal is very close behind him.

“It was so hot. The humidity here, you forget what it's like. Then remembered, Mom used to drop me off at my Aunt Iris' house. She had a pool. I loved it.”

“Always fond of water.”

Closer still. Arms bracketing him from behind. When Hannibal next speaks Will will feel his breath at his ear.

“She was smart, I think. Restless. So she went back to work part time. It was a lawyer's office, I don't remember the name now.”

There will be a record somewhere. It wasn't in Jack's file, but Will would bet the detectives will have it in their old notes somewhere.

“He saw here there.” Will shivers at the brush of Hannibal's lips. Presses back into him.

“He saw her and he wanted her. Not so unusual.”

“And yet he must have known about you. Why leave you alive?”

“He was unprepared. Afraid. I don't think he had ever killed before.” 

“And you slept through the whole thing. So you didn't see him.”

“No.” He lets himself sink back into Hannibal's arms. They said they would wait until this is done, but he wants this. 

They stay like that for a few minutes, before the urge to kiss Hannibal becomes too much he de-tangles himself. He can tell Hannibal is as reluctant as he is.

“I had to come back here, to know, didn't I?”

“Some things about ourselves can only be revealed in the place where we started.”

There's something so open about Hannibal's body language right now. Like he might reach out and pull Will back to him.

“Will you tell me where you started Hannibal?”

“Yes. Come for dinner with me. Eat and find pleasure in being here before tomorrow and I will tell you anything you wish to know.”

He only trusts himself to nod in reply before withdrawing to his room to change and shower. He packed light linen shirts and trousers, prepared for the heat.  
He lays them out before his shower. The temptation to touch himself is high but he resists, enjoying the buzz of vague arousal along his skin.

He muses on Hannibal as he dresses. He hasn't been on what could be called a date in a very long time and never with a man. A glance in the mirror assures him that he doesn't look terrible.

Hannibal awaits him on the balcony. He looks very not terrible. All in black still, dangerous and handsome.

“If you do not mind I took the liberty of looking for a good restaurant within walking distance from here.”

“Not at all. Lead the way.”


End file.
